She has not heard or thought of his pet name for her in ages. The word cracks her resolve to appear independent, and she feels herself give over the weight of her body to their embrace. Though it is not what she intended, she responds, “I missed you too, Daddy,” and hears her voice tremble when she says it.
Theodore gives his bags to a porter and sends them to his hotel, then he and Lee walk together to the bistro she has chosen. It’s a cozy place, with red paisley tablecloths and wax-spattered candlesticks on every table, but Theodore insists on sitting outside, even though it is so cold they have to keep their coats on.
“Dr. Koopman says that everyone should get six to ten hours of fresh air a day,” he says to Lee, ignoring the hovering waitress, who is waiting for them to change their minds and move inside. Theodore has always avidly followed the latest diet and exercise fads. For years he has walked six miles a day, not eaten certain foods together. No cheese with meat. No fruit with grains. Lee has almost forgotten, and scans the menu now, trying to imagine how his habits will translate into Parisian dining. Not well, it turns out: he spends five minutes interrogating the waitress in broken French until Lee has to step in and order for him. Roasted chicken and potatoes, a small salad. Once they have finally settled in he looks Lee over.
“You look good. Healthy. A little plumper, but not too much. I can see it in your face.”
“So nice of you to say so, Daddy,” she says, frowning.
“Well, if you want to slim down again, just follow—”
“The Koopman method. I know.”
Lee switches to pleasantries, asking about his business travels, her brothers. He tells her that his company, DeLaval, is branching out, and he is here to meet about a potential new separator that a Frenchman has patented. Hoover’s tariff bill is causing problems for the company, and in order to stay profitable, Theodore needs to expand its scope. He saws methodically at his chicken while he talks. Lee picks at her food and then sits back in her chair and inspects her manicure. The conversation is familiar, the kind of talk she used to overhear when she was young, when he would let her slip under the table and sit on the rug with her back pressed against his shins, waiting for the adults to finish dinner.
Lee wonders when he will bring the conversation around to her, ask a question about her life here, but it is not until they are done eating that he does.
“Tanja’s parents dropped by for a visit a few months ago,” Theodore says. “They say you’re studying with Man Ray?”
Lee is surprised that he knows this, but it does explain how he got her studio address. “Not really studying. I work with him.”
“His fashion work is very impressive.” Theodore considers himself an expert on fashion. Ever since Lee started modeling, he has filled his albums with pictures of Lee and other models he admires.
“All his work is impressive.”
Theodore peers at her over his glasses and Lee feels momentarily uncomfortable, then reminds herself that she is a twenty-three-year-old woman and that her relationship with Man is none of her father’s business.
“I’d love to meet him while I’m here,” Theodore says.
“He’s—” Lee starts, and then pauses. “We’re very busy at the studio. I’ll see if he can make the time.”
The next afternoon, in preparation for her father’s visit, Lee tidies the studio, folding drop cloths, filing prints, stacking magazines, and straightening frames. She’s not nervous, but she wants the space to look its best when Theodore gets there. When Man comes in and sees that she has organized his collection of birds’ nests on the mantel, he huffs air through his nose.
“He’s coming at two?” Man asks. “Is he—what have you told him? Does he think I’m your lover or your employer?”
“Employer.”
“Ah. Then while he’s here I’ll refrain from talking about fucking you senseless.”
He says it jokingly, but Lee can tell he is troubled. “Love,” she says, going over to him and wrapping her arms around him from behind, “we can tell him if you want. I just—he has this way of asking a thousand questions, until you find yourself wishing you hadn’t said anything in the first place.”
“I’m worried you’re embarrassed of me.”
“What? Why on earth…?”
Man pulls away from her embrace and turns to face her, gesturing at himself from head to toe. “How old is your father? Fifty? You realize I’m closer to his age than I am to yours?”
“I don’t care how old you are. Besides, you’re wise. Not old.”
“Wise.”
“Yes, wise. I love that you’re older than me, that you’ve done more than me. And anyhow, my father is fifty-six.”
“That still puts me closer to his age.”
“You’re nothing like my father,” Lee says. “This is a perfect example of why I don’t want to tell him we’re together.”
“Fine.” Man pulls her close to him again. “We won’t tell your father I’m your wise, ancient lover. I’ll stay ten feet away from you at all times, and if he asks any questions, I’ll just pontificate at him. Wisely.” Again his tone is joking, but he leaves the room soon after and goes into the developing room and stays there while she is cleaning.
Lee’s father is punctual as always. She brings him inside and notices how he has to stoop when he stands in the low-ceilinged foyer. He looks around appraisingly, pausing at the Braque and Léger on the walls, mixed in with Man’s own work.
“Cubists,” he says, sniffing and reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief and blowing his nose. “It’s not what I’m interested in but it’s very popular.” He puts away the handkerchief. “I’m fairly certain I’m getting sick. I find the air in Paris to be quite fetid.”
“What does Koopman have to say about it?”
Theodore doesn’t pick up on her tone. “Oh, I’ve been eating more cruciferous vegetables since I’ve been here to counteract it. But it’s hard to do it right—so many potatoes on these menus.”
He is such a hypochondriac, a trait he’s passed on to her. Even hearing him talk about getting sick makes her throat tickle.
Just then Man comes down the stairs. “Mr. Miller!” he shouts. “What a pleasure. My lovely assistant here has told me so much about you.”
Lee feels a rush of gratitude for his hospitable manner.
“Mr. Ray, the pleasure is mine,” Theodore says. He pumps Man’s hand up and down a few times. They are dressed similarly, in high-waisted black pants and white shirts. After Man’s earlier comments, Lee has to force herself not to make comparisons.
Man leads him upstairs, making small talk as he would with a client, and as they ascend, Lee lags behind them, purposefully slow, trailing her hand along the banister.
In the office, her father has already moved their conversation to photography, and Lee hears him peppering Man with technical questions, the sorts of things she would now be able to answer if he asked her.
“You know,” she hears Man say, “I spent a lot of time fiddling with exposure times. When I was working on one of my series, these images I called rayographs—”
“Objects laid directly on the photographic paper. Yes, I read about it.”
Lee doesn’t even have to look at Man to know this pleases him. “You must be quite knowledgeable about the field. Not very many people in the States have heard of them.”
“Oh yes. I always like to stay up on the latest technologies. Photography is a particular passion of mine.”
Theodore wanders around the office, inspecting the photos hanging on the wall. Most are older work—Man is lazy about changing them—but a few of them are of Lee, and she feels a growing agitation as Theodore moves around the room. By the fireplace there is a portrait of her looking over her shoulder, her back bare, her expression loving. She desperately wants her father not to see it.